


Hardware

by lawatsonholmes, Valeria2067



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub, Domestic, Humor, Humour, M/M, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-26
Updated: 2012-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-31 18:56:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lawatsonholmes/pseuds/lawatsonholmes, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valeria2067/pseuds/Valeria2067
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It is unreasonable to spend time and effort repairing the kitchen table; we could easily purchase one to replace it.  Or is this more sentiment?  Mrs. Hudson wants to keep the table given to her by a dear cousin? Perhaps you don’t wish to part with the first table you took me on?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hardware

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Hardware 硬件](https://archiveofourown.org/works/359786) by [kangtacaty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kangtacaty/pseuds/kangtacaty), [lawatsonholmes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lawatsonholmes/pseuds/lawatsonholmes), [Valeria2067](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valeria2067/pseuds/Valeria2067)



“Clearly, this is meant as a punishment, John. Did Mrs. Hudson order you to bring me? Is that her method of exacting revenge?”  Sherlock looked around at the aisles of building supplies, paint, and other hardware-store paraphernalia as he and John entered the door below a large sign reading HOMEBASE. He let out yet another irritated sigh.

“Oh, yes, Mrs. Hudson is so vengeful.” John stopped to read the signs hanging from the ceiling, searching for something helpful. He considered a moment before turning to Sherlock. “Woodcare. What does that even mean? Do you reckon that’s where we need to look?” He started walking without waiting for Sherlock to follow.

Sherlock only needed two long strides to catch up. “Obstinate, both of you. It is unreasonable to spend time and effort repairing the kitchen table; we could easily purchase one to replace it.  Or is this more sentiment?  She wants to keep the table given to her by a dear cousin? Perhaps you don’t wish to part with the first table you took me on?”  An elderly couple managed to pass within earshot at just that moment. Sherlock turned to them and offered an ingratiating and false smile.

John smiled weakly at the couple and cleared his throat then nudged Sherlock in the ribs with his elbow. “Shut up.” He moved hastily toward the woodcare aisle. “And no,” he said, “It has nothing to do with sentiment—if that were the case, I would never have made you get rid of the sitting room rug you ruined with hydrochloric acid.”

“The new rug offers more padding for your knees and elbows, as well. That’s important for a man of your years.”  Sherlock picked up a tin of varnish, then replaced it disdainfully. He smiled as he saw John’s jaw working in anger. Looking past John’s head, Sherlock noticed an aisle full of door locks and locksmith accessories. “Find me when you’re finished here, John. I intend take the opportunity to practise, rather than merely waste the afternoon.”

“Oh no.” John caught Sherlock’s elbow and steered him down the aisle. John gestured toward the shelves. ”You’re staying right here and gathering the materials  _you_  need to repair the table. It’s your fault it’s broken, so you’re going to fix it. Besides.” John looked away and awkwardly scratched the back of his neck. “I have absolutely no idea what we need for this job,” he muttered.

Sherlock scanned the shelves, frowning. “Tedious,” he huffed. He stepped closer to John and placed a hand on the small of his back. “Can you think of no better use for my hands? Or yours?” He let his fingers trail seductively along to John’s hip, then down to John’s thigh, then back.

“Stop it!” John hissed. “We are in a public place, Sherlock. You know, where there are other people around? And they do not want to watch you getting handsy.”

Sherlock moved forward, pressing John against the shelf. “John,” he drawled, low and thick and just the way he knew drove John mad. He snaked his hands around John’s waist and, careful to make sure the folds of his coat blocked the sight of his hands, groped John’s arse.

John dropped his head against the shelf and took a deep breath. When he finally looked at Sherlock, his eyes were dark and hot. “D’you see that?” He nodded toward an end cap of industrial-grade rope. “If you don’t behave, I’m going to tie your bloody hands behind your back and lead you round the store ‘til we’re finished shopping.”

Sherlock’s lips brushed John’s ear, “You are quite beautiful when you bluff, Doctor Watson.”  

John breathed out slowly and tried not to visibly tremble at the sensation of Sherlock’s mouth so close.  

Sherlock stepped back, turned and quickly walked to the aisle directly behind the rope display. He stopped just before rounding the corner and looked meaningfully back at John. “Or are you a man of your word?” He grinned wickedly before disappearing from John’s sight.

“Right.” John squared his shoulders and marched down the aisle, barely pausing to pluck a coil of rope from the display. As he walked, he loosened one end and unwound a length of the rope then wrapped the end around his hand. He sped up as he caught sight of the swishing tail of Sherlock’s long coat as he turned down the next aisle.

John glanced around and realized Sherlock must be heading toward the back of the store, so he cut through the patio furniture and grill displays. He saw Sherlock just as he reached for the door to the men’s toilet, so John dashed forward and slipped the rope over Sherlock’s head and tightened it around his throat, pulling Sherlock’s head back so John could say softly, “Don’t think you can ever get away from me, Sherlock Holmes.”

The door handle rattled under Sherlock’s trembling hand. John nudged him, indicating they were headed inside, then pushed Sherlock into the small, tiled, empty room as soon as the door was open.  The lock clicked behind them. 

“John, surely you don’t intend—” his words cut off abruptly as the rope around his throat tighten even more.  Sherlock felt himself being pulled backward and down, until he was peering up at John from about the level of the good doctor’s chest.

John grinned wolfishly. “Oh, but I do intend.” He tilted his head and gave Sherlock a considering look, ignoring Sherlock’s obvious discomfort and the way he struggled to stand upright. “You know,” John said, “This is just another in a long line of firsts for me, Sherlock, and they’re all thanks to you. First time I killed a man outside of combat. First time I was kidnapped. Come to think of it, the second and third times were your fault, too. Hmmm.” John shook his head. “But I digress.” He leaned down and put his lips to Sherlock’s ear. “First time I had sex with a bloke. Do you remember, Sherlock?” John caught the lobe of Sherlock’s ear between his teeth and tugged, smiled at the strangled gasp Sherlock couldn’t suppress. He released Sherlock’s earlobe and laved it with his tongue to soothe the sting. “Now, first time I fuck someone in a public toilet. And I am going to fuck you, Sherlock.” John loosened his grip on the rope and let Sherlock rise then shoved him toward the sink. “Hands behind your back.”

Sherlock caught the edge of the sink and looked into the mirror. He ran the fingers of his other hand over the pink rope-marks already blooming on his throat, and he swallowed hard at the thought of what was about to happen. Slowly, he pulled one arm out of the sleeve of his long slate coat. He saw John’s eyes, fiery and determined, locked with his own via their reflection in the mirror. He cleared his throat and removed the other coat sleeve. “May I just…”

“Give it here.” John took the coat swiftly in both hands and turned aside for a moment to lay it over the top of one of the stalls. When he turned back, Sherlock was waiting, head slightly bowed, breaths coming quickly, his hands crossed over each other behind his back.

John swiped his tongue over his bottom lip, taking in Sherlock’s bent head and vulnerable posture, then stepped behind him and caught his hands with the rope. He wrapped the rope around Sherlock’s wrists, not tight enough to chafe but just tight enough to press into the pale, tender skin. Then he tied the ends in an intricate knot before running his hands up Sherlock’s arms to his shoulders. He pulled Sherlock back and brushed his lips over the reddened rope marks on Sherlock’s neck, dropped kisses behind Sherlock’s ear, and whispered, “Such a lovely thing, aren’t you, Sherlock? Such delicate skin. So easily marked.” He tipped Sherlock’s head back and sucked at his throat, used teeth and tongue to bring the blood to the surface in a purpling bruise while he let his hands drift down over Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock’s breath left him in a huff as John slipped open the buttons of his suit jacket and slid his hands up to let his thumbs brush over Sherlock’s nipples. John pressed harder into Sherlock’s back, stretching Sherlock’s trapped arms, and he could feel John’s erection against his tied hands. He desperately wanted to touch but could do nothing.

“Sherlock.” John caught Sherlock’s eyes in the mirror. 

Sherlock’s breath shook as he held John’s gaze, and he felt John’s hand move down to cup him through his his trousers.

“Mine,” John said, voice like a growl.

Sherlock’s knees went weak, then began to buckle underneath him. One part of his mind began to calculate the probable strength of the sink that was now bearing a good deal of his weight, and another part worked out how much force the porcelain and plumbing might still be required to bear before John finished with him. 

The rest of his magnificent mind was filled with aching, trembling want.

“John,” he breathed, his deep voice now closer to a whimper.  He’d never imagined that another person would have this kind of control over him. He’d never imagined how much he would want to give over control, either. Not even a seven-percent solution of cocaine could measure up to John H. Watson in full sexual command.

John stroked Sherlock again, snaked his tongue out and along Sherlock’s neck, leaving heat and wet in his wake. The press of John’s body brought the rough rope binding Sherlock’s hands into sharp relief, and the combination of pleasure and pain had Sherlock’s head swimming, all thoughts of force and pressure and calculations fleeing as Sherlock rocked into John’s touch.

“Please,” Sherlock could hear the pleading in his own voice but didn’t care, couldn’t care. John was still rubbing, still licking and sucking at Sherlock’s exposed throat, and Sherlock moaned, pushed his hips forward.

John slid his right arm up and across Sherlock’s chest, effectively holding him captive, deftly unbuckled Sherlock’s belt and undid his flies with his left hand, and then slipped his hand into Sherlock’s pants, finally touching him skin to skin. Sherlock groaned and shut his eyes at the feel of John’s hand on his cock.

“Look at me,” John said, and it wasn’t a request or a suggestion.

Sherlock met John’s eyes, and what he saw there had him hitching a breath that seemed trapped somewhere deep in his chest.

John’s face was placid, but his eyes burned, black pupils thin-ringed by dark blue. He moved his right arm up, placed two fingers on Sherlock’s full bottom lip. “Suck.”

Lips trembling, Sherlock took the fingers into his mouth and pulled hard, eliciting a lovely, clipped moaning sound from behind him. He worked his tongue around and over, swirling at John’s fingertips, then tilting his head forward to push them deeper toward his throat. He was rewarded with a firm squeeze from John’s other hand, and the whispered exclamation “Fuck!” in his ear.

Then both hands left him. He kept his eyes on John’s as John pushed Sherlock’s trousers and pants down off his hips to his knees.  John undid his own belt and zip, and the sound nearly drove Sherlock over the edge right then and there. It was all he could do to keep his eyes open, as John had commanded, and keep them focused on John’s burning gaze.

John pressed against him, the heat of his erection making contact with Sherlock’s now naked skin.  ”God,” Sherlock moaned.

He watched John lean closer, then reach beyond Sherlock to coat his fingers with liquid soap from the dispenser next to the mirror.  A shiver ran from the middle of Sherlock’s chest all the way down to his ankles.  John pulled Sherlock close again with the other arm, and he slid the two slick, soapy fingers down between Sherlock’s gorgeous buttocks, then right there at the entrance… Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from dropping his head and closing his eyes. 

John urged Sherlock’s legs apart, until they were constricted by the fabric of his trousers and pants at his knees, and Sherlock lurched forward. John’s free hand caught Sherlock round the waist and steadied him; then John slid one slick finger inside Sherlock, moved it in and out a few times, before slipping the second one in, as well. He pushed deep and crooked his fingers, brushing Sherlock’s prostate, and Sherlock’s knees nearly gave out. 

“Now,” Sherlock said, “Fuck me now. John, please.”

John dropped his forehead onto Sherlock’s shoulder, clearly affected by the plea in Sherlock’s voice. “Yeah,” he said, and it came out rough, almost choked. He brushed Sherlock’s prostate once more and then removed his fingers. He reached to fill his hand with a bit more soap from the dispenser and slicked his cock, held Sherlock still as he slid inside.

Sherlock’s breath stuttered as John filled him, the dual sensations of John’s cock inside him and John’s hand reaching down to stroke him juxtaposed against the pain of the rope cutting into his wrists almost too much to take. “Fuck.”

“Christ, Sherlock.” John lifted his head and looked at Sherlock in the mirror. He eased out and back in again.

Sherlock swallowed. “Harder.”

“You’ll fall over if I go harder,” John said breathlessly.

Sherlock shook his head. “Hold my arms for leverage.”

“But then I can’t do this.” John stroked Sherlock’s cock, swiped his thumb over the head.

“Don’t care,” Sherlock bit out. “Just need you to fuck me harder.”

“Can you come like that? Without me touching you?”

“Yes, God, yes. Just fuck. Me. Harder.”

Sherlock felt John’s shudder. Then John grabbed Sherlock’s elbows and wrapped his fingers around, holding firm. He used his grip to move Sherlock back and forth as he thrust forward, harder, faster, and Sherlock felt the rhythm of his heart match the rhythm of John’s thrusts.

Each slap of John’s skin against Sherlock’s echoed in the tiny, tiled room, and the sound made Sherlock mad, had him begging for more. John gave it, pounding into Sherlock until Sherlock thought they would both topple forward, but John knew just when the force was too much, just when to pull back.

John pressed against Sherlock’s back, sank fully into him and ground his hips in slow, torturous circles. “So fucking good, Sherlock. Jesus.” Then he nipped at Sherlock’s pulse point, teeth sharp and just a bit painful.

The feel of John’s teeth in the tender skin of his throat had Sherlock gasping as pleasure gathered at the base of his spine and erupted, pushing him over the edge. He came, John’s name a whispered litany.

“Fucking hell, that was beautiful,” John said and buried his nose in the hair at Sherlock’s nape. He thrust twice more and then stilled, orgasm overtaking him.

Gently, lovingly, John stroked Sherlock’s shoulders and arms, then reached down to free Sherlock’s hands.  Sherlock immediately grabbed the edges of the sink to steady himself.  His breathing hadn’t quite slowed, and his leg muscles were burning from holding himself at an angle for so long.  Despite all of that, he was nearly giddy with happiness.

John kissed his back.  ”Are you able to stand for another few minutes?”  Sherlock smiled and nodded, still huffing out rapid breaths.

It didn’t take John too long to get the paper towels, dampen a few in the sink, and clean the both of them off as much as was possible for the time being.  Sherlock looked a bit disdainfully at his dampened trousers, but there was nothing for it. He would just put on his long coat until they reached the flat.

When they were both presentable again, Sherlock reached for the door. John stopped him. 

“Just so I know…. You didn’t do this merely to get out of helping me repair the kitchen table, did you, Sherlock?” John grinned.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “You will have to use your powers of deduction, John. You know my methods.”

John looked up at Sherlock, considering for a moment. “What now, then? Back to the repair aisle? Or do we go home and explain to Mrs. Hudson why we came back empty-handed.”

Sherlock retrieved his smartphone from the pocket of his coat, activated it, scrolled down, tapped the keys, then turned it so John could see the screen.

“I took the liberty of ordering a replacement before we left Baker Street. It will arrive on Tuesday afternoon.”

John looked at the display, then back at Sherlock.

“You complete and utter …. So this trip was absolutely pointless?”

Sherlock smiled. “Oh there was definitely a point, John.  And I must say I enjoyed it immensely.”  He turned, opened the door and held it. “After you.”

John clenched and unclenched his fists, not moving.  ”What time Tuesday afternoon? For the new table?”

“Between one and three. Why?” Sherlock furrowed his brow.

John jutted his jaw out. “My shift at the clinic ends at four. When I get home, I expect to find you with clothes off, and ready to christen the damn thing.”

“Your wish is my command, as always.” 

**Author's Note:**

> "Liveblogged" on tumbler with lawatsonholmes (idratherbereading)


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